


calculated ruthlessness

by gacrux



Category: Makai Ouji: Devils and Realist
Genre: But today is not that day, M/M, manga specific characters, maybe one day i'll write something nsfw about them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-30
Updated: 2013-07-30
Packaged: 2017-12-21 22:16:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/905567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gacrux/pseuds/gacrux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Metatron couldn't wait to ruin him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	calculated ruthlessness

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place directly after their confrontation in chapter 32.

From a distance, Metatron could see Michael's hands closed around a balcony railing in a white-knuckled grip. His wings, faintly golden in the sunlight and still fading, were curled around his body in a protective loop. His lips were pursed in a scowl and his jaw was clenched, teeth grinding together helplessly. For a moment the archangel's head lolled back against his shoulders and he turned his vermillion-eyed scowl to the skies, his golden hair draping over his back like a shawl.

 

He truly was an angel of beauty.

 

He was so proud, so dignified, yet fractured. Michael wouldn't even realize it until it was too late, until he was already too far gone to be fixed, and then he would regret it and his remorse would look so very delectable on him – so painfully human.

 

Metatron couldn't wait to ruin him.

 

His fingers twitched at his sides, longing to skim his nails down the pale curve of Michael's exposed shoulder.

 

As if in response, the archangel's eyes locked onto his, scowling deeper at the sight of him.

 

“What are you doing here.” Michael bit out, wings twitching and curling in at the tips. Metatron traced the movement with his eyes, amused by the blatant uneasiness.

 

“Just passing through. You seem a little paranoid, Michael. Worried about something?” He smiled at the archangel's furious glare. There was something vaguely endearing about Michael's attempts to intimidate him when they both knew he was in no state to do so. Desperation made a mess of all beings, immortal or otherwise. “Maybe your holy war is bothering you still?” He added, for good measure. Metatron's feet made quiet clicks against the stone floor as he approached, his eyes never wavering, never blinking. He could see the wariness reflected in Michael's eyes, following his approach, distinctly uncomfortable but too proud to admit it.

 

Michael's eyes narrowed and he backed against the balcony railing as Metatron crowded in on him. The archangel's wings fluttered close, awkward all over again about the deliberate and unwelcome invasion of space, and ended up swung around the both of them. The soft feathers brushed over Metatron's shoulders, reminding him briefly of a time years ago when things were different. He hummed thoughtfully, carefully packaging the memories away. They were still so clear and unfortunately vivid. Michael's hands shot up between them like a barrier, curling into the air inches away from Metatron's chest.

 

“This is familiar.” Metatron purred, one hand tracing the contours of Michael's cheek while the other slid around his bicep. Michael stiffened, seemed to squirm under the spider-light touch, but didn't otherwise move.

 

“Is it? I can't seem to recall.” The archangel all but spat, observing through shuttered eyes the expression of subdued delight plastered across Metatron's face. “You're not interesting to me.”

 

Leaning in, the dark-eyed angel tipped Michael's head up and whispered into his lips, “But I interested you once.”

 

Michael's lips curled up into a snarl against his.

 

“You arrogant filth.” He hissed, teeth snapping together roughly, angrily. “How dare you – after what you did – how dare you approach me so casually–” The hand on Michael's bicep tightened as he tossed the archangel halfway over the railing, while the other slid over the base of his neck, a mockery of gentleness, holding him down. Michael sucked in a breath and sank both hands into the overcoat of Metatron's stupid cosplay of the German emperor, his finger catching on a fake medal of service. Then he twisted, trying to kick him out from between his legs.

 

“I'll let you drop.” Metatron threatening gleefully, smiling through bared teeth.

 

“Angels can fly you complete dunce.” Michael seethed, trying to struggle his way free without letting go over Metatron's coat.

 

“Can you?” His dark eyes lit up mischievously. “Could your fading wings catch you if you fell?” The hand on his jaw shifted downward, one finger smoothing over the hollow of his throat almost searchingly, as though he would find the answer engraved in Michael's blanched skin. Metatron stilled completely above him. “Shall we see if you'll fall?”

 

The hands lifted from Michael's skin and ripped his fingers from the anchor of Metatron's coat. No hesitation, no crooked smile, just calculated ruthlessness.

 

Michael panicked.

 

“No!” He yelled, legs snapping around Metatron's thin waist, hands grasping at his arms. For a split second Metatron simply observed from above, watching the emotions race across Michael's face, making him look almost human against the backdrop of a thousand feet of open air. His wings beat uselessly, catching on everything but the wind. Feathers were loosed and drifted around them, down, up, weightless. Metatron marvelled at them pleasantly.

 

Michael, on the other hand, was neither weightless nor drifting peacefully through the stagnant air of Heaven.

 

Metatron pulled the archangel up by the strait of his neck, smiling just a little smugly, nose to nose, eye to eye. Michael's humiliated scowl didn't negate the adrenaline-driven shakes chasing up and down his body, which trembled almost comically against Metatron's chest.

 

“Get off me.” Michael snapped, looking up shamefaced and annoyed, prying his fingers out from between the seams of Metatron's coat.

 

After a pause wherein he remained solidly pinned to the railing, Michael forced himself to meet Metatron's eyes again, only to find them upturned in a smirk.

 

“That requires you letting me go first, I think.” Metatron teased, leaning back against the legs still secured around his waist. “Unless you would rather not.” He added with a derisive smile.

 

Michael scoffed, flushing to the tips of his ears out of fury and mortification, and his bare feet hit the ivory floor with a smack.

 

“Don't approach me again.” The archangel snapped over his shoulder, his head held high in a pretence Metatron could see right through just as easily as he could the edges of Michael's pretty little wings. He had so much dignity and so much arrogance disguised as gallantry it was a wonder he could function at all. Michael, the angel of truth and justice, following neither virtues himself. He never would, and he'd never recognize that he wasn't. Angels born as angels were so incredibly dull in some ways, and yet so very entertaining in others. Michael disliked humans because he couldn't understand them, he had never been one; little did he realize he and all the other clever little angels acted just as human as the humans did.

 

It was almost pathetic really, that they all thought themselves so very high above Earth and Hell and whatever else might lie between. Michael's arrogance and derisory confidence would prove especially satisfying to peel back layer by painful layer; like a bad coat of paint waiting to be stripped away. It was only a matter of time in the end.

 

Metatron watched Michael go, smiling placidly, tauntingly, fingers twitching impatiently at his sides.

 


End file.
